


The Winter Thief

by oneiriad



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternative Universe - Gentleman Thief, Leonard Snart Big Bang 2018, M/M, Stealthy crossovers sneakily hiding here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 21:29:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15872091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneiriad/pseuds/oneiriad
Summary: ”I left Central City when I was 16 years old. I got off the boat at Le Havre with nothing to my name except a couple hundred dollars and a tattered copy of Arsène Lupin I'd read and re-read, and I promised myself that I was never going to go back.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an expanded version of a meme reply I did on tumblr.
> 
> I'll be adding a few more tags in a few days, mostly characters.

If you were queer, Central City in the early '90s was a bit of a two bar town – and to Mick's mind, Sappho's down by the docks only counted when he was more in the mood for Mama Sanchez' chili roasted bar snacks than for getting laid.

Tonight? Was not one of those nights.

It was rare enough that he treated himself to a night out. The kind of people Mick had to deal with in his day to day life? Well – most of them were smart enough not to try to gay bash the guy hired specifically to be the muscle, but life still tended to be easier if he kept it quiet. Besides, he had to spend time at the regular dive bars, because that's where most of his prospective employers put the word out if they needed a guy.

But tonight? Tonight he was flush and he wanted to spend some of that on a few drinks. Maybe even splurge on a nice motel room if the guy he picked up was pretty.

So, there he was at Saints'n'Sinners, nursing his second drink and contemplating torching the three frat boys who had wandered in to gawk at the homos and were currently making the jukebox play YMCA for the fourth time in a row – when in walked quite possibly the prettiest guy Mick had ever seen.

He wasn't really in the habit of using a term like silver fox, but this guy? Fuck, this guy was gorgeous.

He looked a bit out of place, though. Not like the frat boys, no – just. Overdressed, Mick decided. Nice shirt, expensive shoes, watch that obviously wasn't a cheap knock off. Not quite fancy enough that the guy was guaranteed to get mugged before the night was over, but definitely a few steps above the usual clientele of semi-poor students and blue collar workers.

Mick got a good look at the guy as he walked up to the bar and ordered himself a drink before turning to survey the room. Up close he only got more gorgeous, all silver hair and blue eyes.

In short, the guy was way out of Mick's league.

Except then he turned and gave Mick an appreciative look and a slightly crooked smile.

”May I buy you a drink?”

”Sure.”

The guy sounded downright posh, maybe even like some sort of fancy Brit – probably some sort of tourist, looking for a bit rough. Not that Mick minded, really. It's not like he wasn't any better himself tonight, not really.

”I'm Mick,” he offered and tasted the new drink the bartender placed before him.

”Leonard,” his new friend replied, raising his glas a little. ”Nice to make your acquaintance, Mick.”

They talked a bit about nothing important, until Mick finished his drink.

”Wanna go someplace else?” he asked, figuring since him and Leonard were both on the same page, they might as well get on with the program.

”Certainly.”

About three steps outside Saints'n'Sinners Mick lost his patience and dragged Leonard into the oh-so-conveniently dark alley. He didn't seem to mind. At least, he kissed back with a vengeance and grabbed hold of Mick's biceps and yanked him back down when he tried to take a break, so that seemed like a good sign.

”Eww. Come look here, Kenny. Two faggots being all gross!”

Mick swore and pushed Leonard back and behind him. Like a fucking amateur he hadn't noticed the frat boys following them outside. He knew better. Just last week he'd heard the rumour of a gay man cruising in the park having ended up in hospital.

He stuck his hand in his pocket, slipping the knuckles on. He wished he had his gun on him or better yet his flamethrower, but he had been out to get laid, and the gun was for work.

The three boys moved closer, laughing and making rude comments. They were muscly types – jocks of some sort, Mick figured. Just his luck. Still, he doubted the three of them had ever been in a proper dirty brawl, the sort that Mick got in for a living, so he figured he could at least hold them off long enough for...

”Len? Get the hell out of here!”

He didn't spare the time to see if Leonard did the sensible thing and headed for the other end of the alley. Instead, he decided that the best defence was clearly an offence and stepped forward, landing a solid punch on the biggest guy's nose. There was a very satisfying crunch, but Mick didn't really have the time to enjoy it before they were on him.

If there'd been only two of them, he'd have kicked their asses. But they were three, and the third one grabbed some sort of half-rotten board leaning against the bar's trash cans and slammed it into Mick's back, sending him to his knees.

”Dirty faggot!”

Then there was the faint snickering noise of a switchblade and Mick figured that was that. At least Leonard would have had time to get away.

”I'd appreciate it if you'd put down that piece of wood and step away from my friend.”

That didn't sound like Leonard had gotten away. Damnit, what was the guy thinking? Was he trying to get himself killed as well?!

There was a clatter as the board landed on the ground and Mick glanced backwards, trying to figure out what was going on.

Leonard was standing right behind frat boy number three, twisting one of the kid's hands behind his back and holding some sort of knife to his throat.

Mick climbed to his feet and bent, ignoring what was going to be a bruise and grabbed the board and turned around to where frat boys number one and two were getting back up from where he'd put them down. They took one look at Mick, another at where Leonard was holding their friend, then turned in almost perfect unison and ran away.

”I think you'd be wise to follow the example of your friends. Don't you agree?” Leonard suggested, emphasizing his suggestion by pressing the knife just a bit more firmly against the kid's throat. The kid made a strangled noise that might have suggested agreement, and Leonard let him go, shoving him away from himself.

Mick growled and lifted the board and the kid turned and ran, hand pressed against his throat.

Then he turned and looked at Leonard, who paused as he was putting away the knife to raise an eyebrow at him.

”My hero,” he drawled, and Mick blinked, because that didn't sound posh or British at all. That was a pure Central City drawl if ever he'd heard one.

”Yeah, well,” and he tossed the board in the trash can. ”Guess that ruined the mood.”

”Oh, I wouldn't necessarily say so,” and the posh was back, but Leonard was smirking at him. ”Besides, I want to have a look at where that bastard hit you.”

”That line usually work for you?”

”Like a charm.”

Mick snorted.

”Sure, let's go get a room.”

”And a taxi, I think. I don't feel like walking down the streets tonight.”

The hotel that Leonard made the cab driver take them to was swankier than the sort of motel Mick had figured they were heading for, and he watched somewhat bemused as Leonard got them a room and arranged for a room service breakfast to be delivered the next morning at ”oh, around 9 o'clock, I think. Does that work for you, Mick?”

”Sounds fine.”

Mick was pulling off his t-shirt and wincing even before the door had shut properly behind them, twisting to get a proper look at his back in the large mirror on the wall across from the hotel room's bed.

”Stop that,” Leonard ordered, coming close and frowning at Mick's back, running his hands over him.

”Can't wait to get your hands all over me, buddy?”

”I suspect that neither of us are patient men, Mr. Rory. Now stop flirting for a moment and tell me if any of this hurts.”

”Hurts like a bitch – but just in general. Stop poking me.”

”Well, I don't think that little idiot broke anything, but you're going to have a sizable bruise.” He didn't lower his hands as he walked around to Mick's front, letting them slide under his arms and come to rest on his chest. He squinted. ”And I do believe that's a bit of a black eye as well.”

”Guess my modelling days are over, Doc. Still in the mood for this? We could just...” was as far as he got, before Leonard stepped closer and resumed the kiss that the frat boys had so rudely interrupted.

Well, Mick had no objections to that. He happily kissed back, yanking at that nice shirt of Leonard's to get his hands on some bare skin himself.

And then – just as Mick was starting to fumble at the fancy belt around Leonard's waist – he stepped back. Mick was just about to ask once more if Leonard was backing out, except the look on the guy's face wasn't a backing-out sort of look. Quite the contrary, he looked like a cat about to pounce on the cream. Hell, he was literally licking his slightly swollen lips.

”Len?”

”Why don't you get comfortable out here?” and he gestured towards the very nice bed. ”If you don't mind, I'd like a short shower before we proceed. Besides, I'd prefer not getting these clothes torn. The tips hotel staff expects for running out and buying shirts for you these days are deplorable, and I doubt anybody at this hotel has any taste anyway.”

Mick snorted, but once the bathroom door had clicked shut behind Leonard he turned to the bed and figured, well, it's not like he didn't have to wear the same outfit tomorrow as well. He picked up his t-shirt and undressed, piling it all up on a chair. Belatedly he remembered he'd left the condoms in his pocket in the jeans at the bottom of the pile and had to dig them out and put them on the tiny table by the bed within easy reach.

Then he grinned. If Leonard wanted him to get comfortable, well – might as well give the man a show.

He pulled back the covers and arranged himself in the middle of the bed, stacking the pillows behind him and wincing slightly – that bruise was not going to be fun tomorrow. Well, that was tomorrow's headache. Maybe there was a tub in the bathroom he could monopolize before they got kicked out tomorrow. Right now, he got comfortable as instructed, one arm behind his head, legs splayed invitingly and one hand stroking his dick. Nice, long, lazy strokes.

And then he waited for his audience.

He heard the water stop running and had enough time to start worrying that Leonard maybe wasn't just a little shy, but perhaps had something he wanted to hide away under those nice clothes – even started expecting a request for the lights to be turned off – when the door clicked open and Leonard stepped out, gloriously naked apart from a tiny hotel towel wrapped around his waist.

Mick might have been drooling. Just a little. Metaphorically.

Mind you, Leonard definitely looked like he was returning the favour, getting a proper eyeful of Mick, so that's okay.

”Like what you see?”

”Oh yes,” and he let the towel drop and walked forward, resting one knee on the end of the bed. Fuck, the guy was hot, and he was fucking posing. For Mick.

”Yeah. Me too,” he offered, and Leonard smirked. Well, it's not like Mick was trying to hide his appreciation. ”Any requests?”

”Requests?”

”Well,” Mick shrugged, ”I figured, since you're going to be getting me breakfast in bed and all that, maybe there's something I can do for you? Well – assuming my back's feeling cooperative.”

”How about,” and Leonard climbed onto the bed and leaned down, reaching for a condom as he moved closer, ”you just lie back and let me do all the work? Give you a proper hero's reward?”

”Yeah,” and Mick let his head fall back as Leonard's fingers closed around his cock. ”We can do that. Whatever you want, Boss.”


	2. Chapter 2

”It's a nice painting, isn't it?” 

Leonard made a non-commital sort of noise into his champagne flute and turned to look at the man addressing him. He was a well-dressed sort and if Leonard was to make a guess he'd say he was somewhere in his thirties, about a decade Leonard's senior. He had a tan, as if he'd spent a few weeks lounging somewhere around the Mediterranean, and a smile that didn't seem fake at first glance.

”It's very – impressionistic,” Leonard settled on, inwardly cursing that he hadn't taken more time to read up on all the artists at the galleri exhibit. If he'd been caught loitering in front of one of the Warhols, he could have faked it better.

”Oh yes. Derwatt is commonly held to have been influenced by the great impressionists, though he is of course much more modern. He's got a lot to say to our modern times, don't you think?”

”Absolutely,” Leonard agreed, wondering how he might politely excuse himself and get away from this man.

”Derwatt's actually a personal favourite of mine, I've got a couple of his pieces myself back home. 'Man in Chair' is my particular favourite and, I believe, from around the same period as this piece.”

”That's nice,” Leonard smiled and drained his flute. ”Oh, will you look at that. My glass is empty. I'd better go fix that.”

”Yes, let's go have another drink – and can I just say, it's so nice meeting a young person with an interest in the arts. These days, most people your age seem more interested in getting worked up about politics instead of cherishing the fine arts. I'm Tom, by the way,” and he held out a nicely tanned hand. A narrow band of white skin circled his wrist like a bracelet.

”Leo. And thank you,” Leonard said, raising the fresh champagne flute in a little toast and trying, unsuccesfully, to pull his hand out of Tom's firm grasp.

”By the way, I believe you have something that belongs to me.”

”I don't know what you mean,” Leonard replied, yanking his hand free.

”Oh now, let's not make a scene. Somebody might notice and call les flics and we don't want that, now do we? I wouldn't even have mentioned it if it was just my wallet – feel free to keep that, by the way. But I am really going to have to insist on you returning my watch. It was a present from my wife and she'll be unhappy if I lose it. I'm sure you understand.”

Tom wrapped a friendly arm around Leonard's shoulders and started walking them towards the exit, casually accepting a coat handed to him by one of the gallery people.

”Listen, Tom, you've got this all wrong.”

”Oh, don't be upset, Leo. I was enjoying watching you work. You have a very light touch, but I'm sure you know that already. Now, we'll just walk a bit down the street, and you'll hand me back my watch, and that'll be that.”

”How did you know?” Leonard grumbled, digging into his pockets to extract the watch in question.

”Let's just say you're not the first young American scoundrel to try his luck in Europe.”

Leonard glanced back towards the Galerie Péritio and the light spilling out on the dark Parisian street.

”I wouldn't go back there tonight if I was you. Somebody might wonder why you're back so soon after the two of us just left as such good friends. I did try to wait until you appeared to have finished working for the night.”

”Appreciated,” Leonard did not whine. It's not like Tom wasn't been right. He had filled his pockets and had just been contemplating whether to grab a little more of the free food before heading out when the other American had approached him.

”Right, I suppose this is where our ways part,” Tom decided, holding out his hand, having finished putting the watch back on. Leonard shook it. ”Unless – I believe the bar of that hotel down the street might still be open. Perhaps you'd like to join me in one more friendly drink?”

He held Leonard's hand just a little longer than strictly necessary, letting his thumb rub a lacy circle before letting go, as if to make sure Leonard didn't mistake his invitation.

Tom ordered their drinks – bright, colourful things with a kick like a mule – and handed the bartender some bills from a money clip he had apparently left in his coat pocket at the gallery. Risky, Leonard thought to himself. Somebody might have stolen it. Then he snickered.

Tom spared him a glance and a raised eyebrow while pocketing the key the bartender had handed him, then finished his drink and rose. Leonard hurriedly drained his own, trying to ignore the kick of the alcohol, and followed the other man upstairs.

***

Leonard woke up alone. His ass was sore, his mouth tasted foul, and the cheap hotel sheets stuck awkwardly to his crotch. He rolled over and winced at the feeling of a few pubic hairs getting ripped out as he came unstuck.

He lay there for a little while, squinting at the nicotine-stained sunlight filtering in through the curtains, slowly coming awake. Then he turned his head and spotted the wallet lying on the floor.

He was on his feet before he even realized it, grabbing the wallet and checking. Nothing. No bills, no coins.

Not the first scoundrel, Tom had said. Well, fair enough – he'd probably just changed his mind about Leonard keeping his wallet or rather the contents thereof. Except – that's when he spotted the second wallet. And the third.

A few frantic moments later and Leonard came the conclusion that he'd been completely ripped off. Every wallet he had lifted last night was still present and accounted for, and not a single one of them held any money. The jewelry he'd carefully left at the very bottom of his pockets as he undressed? Gone. The watches, the rings, the fancy necklace he'd been a little proud of lifting. All gone. Even the metro tickets he'd pickpocketed for practice on his way to the gallery had been taken.

Not the first scoundrel by a long shot.

***

It took several days, a referral by his usual fence to a much better class of fence specializing in stolen art, and a tiny burglary at a minor public office, but finally Leonard had an address. He also had a few ominous warnings to keep clear of the man, but those he ignored.

Leonard might not be much, but he'd be damned if he was going to let anybody get away with fucking him over the way Tom had.

He caught a train to Fontainebleau during the weekend, where he got a map at the station and stole a car parked in front of a house that gave him the impression, after careful snooping, that the people living there were probably elsewhere for the time being. Then, making only a few false turns, he drove the rest of the way to Villeperce. Stopping into a local tabac to buy some cigarettes and leaf through the local phonebook got him the final piece he needed.

Tom's house lay at the edge of the village. It wasn't very large, really, though whoever had built it had clearly had fanciful notions about how a house ought to look. To Leonard, it looked more like a tiny castle than a modern house. Between that and the sizable, well-kept garden, it looked like money.

Best of all, in his humble opinion and after he'd lurked in the garden well into the night, spending more time than he'd care to think of crouching next to a small cluster of snowdrops, it looked like the house was empty.

Perfect for a spot of burglary.

As it turned out, somebody had conveniently forgotten to close one of the upstairs windows properly. A short climb, a little wriggling, and Leonard was inside. Then it was just a matter of finding the damn thing.

As it turned out, it was hanging in pride of place over the fireplace.

At least, Leonard assumed that the painting was 'Man in Chair'. It had the same kind of feel as the Derwatt in the gallery, the same multiple outlines that made Leonard feel like he ought to stop by an optician once he got out of here. Most telling, it was a painting of a man sitting in a chair.

Balancing on a chair it was the work of just a few minutes to carefully slice the picture free from the frame. He rolled it up and stuffed it in a bag he'd found in the kitchen, then briefly considered seeing what else he could find in the house before deciding not to. Tonight was about sending a message. He could always burgle someone else.

As he turned to leave, he stuck a hand in his pocket and felt something. As he pulled it out, he remembered idly picking the snowdrop while he'd waited and watched for any sign of the house's inhabitants.

On a whim he left the snowdrop on the fireplace mantel, right underneath the empty frame. Then he let himself out the back door.

He left the car right back where he'd found it, even took the time to have the tank topped up for his unsuspecting benefactors, then lurked in the general vicinity of the station until he could catch the first morning train to Paris.

Three days later there was a knock on his door.

This in itself was somewhat unusual, because apart from his landlady, nobody was supposed to know that Leonard lived in the tiny room above the cafe, and she was too lazy to start knocking on his door at three in the morning anyway.

He opened the door slowly, keeping his knife at the ready in the hand hidden from his unexpected guest.

The man outside was huge and scowling.

”Monsieur Snart?” he growled, and Leonard cautiously nodded.

The man stepped forward, pushing the door fully open and almost sending Leonard sprawling on the floor, sparing an unimpressed glance at the knife Leonard hurriedly hid behind his back. Then he demonstratively turned his back on Leonard, unslung the tube that had been slung over his shoulder and – after having looked for a more suitable place for it – placed it on Leonard's narrow bed. Then he turned back around, sticking his hand under his coat and making Leonard go tense – but he just pulled out a white envelope and slammed it with a flat hand against Leonard's chest, nearly knocking him over for the second time.

Then the man left without even bothering to shut the door.

Before doing anything else, Leonard first waited until he was certain he'd heard the door to the street close behind the goon. Then he shut his own door and dragged his chair over to wedge under the handle. Then, having secured himself as best he could, he turned his attention to his mysterious delivery.

First he opened the tube. Inside was a painting, carefully rolled up and easily recognizable as yet another of those damned Derwatts. In fact, he recognized it – he'd seen it just three days earlier.

With a sinking feeling he turned to the envelope. Inside was a single piece of paper, thick and probably expensive. The message, short and to the point, was handwritten as finely as any upper class wedding invitation.

_You're lucky I have a sense of humour.  
Now get the hell out of France before I change my mind.  
Tom Ripley_


	3. Chapter 3

”I think this might be a bad idea.”

Len looked down at the food in front of him and poked at it with his fork.

”The shrimp Fra Diavolo? Perhaps it is a little spicy, but I find myself inexplicably fond of the hotter things in life as of late.”

Mick swallowed. He hadn't even known eating shrimp could look hot. He hurriedly took another bite of his Neapolitan pizza to give himself a moment to calm down.

”No, that's – the food's awesome.”

”As it should be. I hear the chef trained in Naples.”

Mick wasn't entirely sure why that was a good thing, but his pizza was definitely the best pizza he'd ever tasted.

”It's not the food, it's just – this. Dating. I think maybe it's a bad idea.”

”Dinner and a movie? I admit, ”True Lies” isn't exactly my usual choice, but the reviews – that's not what you meant either. Mick?”

”It's just – look at this place. Waiters in tight suits and a wine list you wouldn't even let me look at. I...”

”Mick, I know we haven't talked about the differences in our finances yet, but...”

”No, Lenny, it ain't about the money. It's – you fit here. You're this – you've been so many places, you've got all this education and manners and that gallery you've been telling me about wanting to open, and I'm just this stupid farm boy who hasn't even learned which fork to use in a fancy restaurant.”

”Mick – I'm sorry. I thought you'd enjoy the pizza here, that's all. We can go to that place with grilled ribs again, I don't mind. I never wanted to lord anything over you, that wasn't...”

”Len, that's not – listen. I think we should stop dating. The sex is – really, really good, and I like you, I like you a lot, but – you barely know me and Lenny, I'd be so bad for you. You don't deserve that.”

”Maybe I like a little bad?” Len wraggled his eyebrows and Mick could feel his foot slide slowly against his instep. He hurriedly pulled his foot away, and Len frowned at him.

”I'm trying to tell you that we need to stop this – seeing each other, because I'd be really bad for you and I'd probably screw up your life, and you don't deserve that.”

Len straightened and glared at Mick.

”Maybe you'd do me the favour of allowing me to form my own opinion about that?” Then he picked up his glass of the fancy wine the sommelier had picked for them.

”Damnit, Lenny,” Mick hissed, lowering his voice, ”I'm trying to tell you that I'm a criminal!”

At which point Len chocked on his wine.

A couple of minutes later Len finally managed to wave away the concerned waiters, reassuring them that no, he didn't need the Heimlich right this instant, thank you. Then he just sat for a moment, dabbing at the red spot on his sleeve and looking thoughtfully at Mick, who felt very, very small and mostly wanted to run and hide.

Then he started to laugh.

”Len?”

”I'm sorry.” His voice was muffled behind the napkin he'd pressed against his face. ”I'm sorry, I'm not laughing at you, Mick, I'd never. It's just...”

Mick waited impatiently for Len to collect himself. Out of all the reactions he'd imagined Len might have to his confession, this really wasn't one that had ever occurred to him, and he was finding himself caught between feeling puzzled and starting to ever so slowly get angry.

Fortunately, Len managed to collect himself first.

”I think that we might want to take a rain check on Mr. Schwarzenegger's excellent muscles. I think – will you come home with me tonight? We need to talk properly and I fear we've already attracted too much attention here as it is.”

The first five minutes in the taxi they sat quietly, apart from Len giving the driver an address in an upscale neighbourhood.

”When you say criminal,” Len started, turning halfway around to face Mick, ”what do you mean exactly? I believe you mentioned working freelance in the warehouse district?”

”I'm an arsonist for hire. Sometimes. Mostly, I work as muscle for the Families.”

”Ah. Any particular affiliation?”

”Not yet. I'm far too low on the totempole for that.”

”I see,” and Len settled back in his seat.

Mick glanced at him, but apart from Len not looking like he was about to immediately demand that the taxi be stopped and Mick kicked out of it, he couldn't figure out what was going to happen.

The taxi driver looked at them funny when Len paid, but Mick scowled at the guy and he hurriedly took off without a word.

The building was just as fancy as Mick had expected, complete with a doorman and everything. They took the elevator up, walked down a hallway that looked like it might have been the living room of some elderly lady, and through a door with a discreet little number on it.

”Mr. Snart!” an elderly woman exclaimed, putting down her knitting. ”I did not expect you back tonight! Did your date go poorly?”

”Oh no, Signora Ferrante, we just – changed our plans a bit. Is everything alright here? Is Lisa asleep?”

”Like a little angel, Mr. Snart.” She glanced at Mick. ”Do you need me to go?”

”That might be best. I'm very sorry to send you out at this hour. Please, have Mr. Kolisnyk call you a taxi and of course I'm paying for the entire night as well.”

While Signora Ferrante gathered up her things and fetched her overnight bag, Mick sat down on the couch and looked around the apartment. It was a very nice apartment. Nice, soft furniture, bookshelves full of books in different languages, paintings on the wall. There was one in particular that caught his gaze, a painting of two small girls sitting and if you looked at it just so, you realized that they were apparently surrounded by flames.

Len broke his trance by handing him a glass of brandy, then sinking down in the chair across from him and putting a box on the table.

”So – you got a kid, then? Got her mother stashed away somewhere?”

”No, she's not my – she's my sister. My father remarried a few years ago. She's eight.”

”And her parents are on vacation or?”

”No, they're both gone now. She lives here with me now. She's – most of the reason I came back.”

”Back?”

”I'm sorry,” and Len shook his head. ”I'm telling this story all out of order. You'll have to forgive me, it's – not really a story I've told anybody else before.”

For a moment he sat, gazing into the depths of his own glass of brandy. Then he took a deep breath.

”I left Central City when I was 16 years old. I got off the boat at Le Havre with nothing to my name except a couple hundred dollars and a tattered copy of Arsène Lupin I'd read and re-read, and I promised myself that I was never going to go back.”

”What about your parents?”

”My mother had passed by then. My father – I suspect he was mostly relieved, though probably also furious that I'd stolen every bit of money in the house I could find. Still – he was a cop – crooked, but then, they all were back then – and had ambitions. I have always been pale enough to pass, but with me gone he'd never have to worry about the scandal.”

”So – you just went off to France as a big kid? How did you survive?”

”I pickpocketed and shoplifted, did all manner of petty crimes to scrounge a livelihood together. Then, after a few years, I met a man who inspired me to embark on a more – ambitious career.”

Len unlocked the box, opened it and pushed it towards Mick. At a glance, it seemed full of newspaper clippings. He picked up the top one. It had a headline in Italian and a picture of an expensive looking set of jewelry. The next one was in French and had a picture of some old fashioned painting. The next looked German and the picture was of a bottle of wine.

”You don't look like a Central City born street kid. Don't sound like one neither.”

”I stole to pay for lessons in elocution and manners, culture and languages. I stole to pay for nice clothes and all the paraphernalia of a gentleman.”

”So, you're a regular Eliza Doolittle.”

Len smirked.

”If Eliza had gotten her makeover to start a career as an international gentleman thief, yes.”

Mick kept leafing through the clippings, noticing dates and pictures and headlines he sometimes halfway understood bits of. Then, at long last, there was one in English, The Times boldly declaring ”The legendary Winter Thief strikes again!” There were two pictures this time – one of a tiny figurine of a nymph holding what looked like some sort of gem, the other of the place she'd just been standing, except she was gone and in her place lay – Mick squinted – some sort of tiny flower.

He turned his head and looked at the bookshelves again. Balancing on top of three books lying down was the nymph, ice blue gem firmly in her grasp.

”So you see – you really don't need to worry about dragging me down into the criminal underworld. I've been living here quite comfortably for decades.”


	4. Chapter 4

Becoming an international master thief was a lot harder than it looked like, Leonard thought, as he was frog marched out of the pretty little castle by a strapping pair of royal guards in ridiculously tall bear skin hats.

It had been a decent plan. Hide in the castle while the last tourists were herded out, sneak out and scoop up a few valuables while avoiding the guards doing their regular rounds, and then stroll out after the doors opened the next morning. Piece of cake.

Like a damn amateur he hadn't expected the guards to do their rounds irregularly.

They'd run him to ground and emptied his pockets – it's not like he'd even pocketed that much, just that macabre skull pomander and a few carved ivory animals. It's not like he'd taken one of the crowns or something like that, though you'd think it, the way everybody carried on.

He spent the next couple of days cooling his heals in the fortress-like police station in Copenhagen, but apparently the courts were bored and his case was pretty open and shut. Two months the judge proclaimed and that was that.

His cell was tiny and the guards had to escort him any time he needed to use the toilet, but it was private and the prison librarian happily brought him a stack of ”learn to speak Danish” materials to spend his time on. He got a little jittery at being cooped up, but there was time to socialize with the other inmates everyday, and besides, two months hardly seemed worth the bother of a prison break.

Besides, it'd take longer than that to dig a tunnel. Though he'd noticed that the delivery of groceries for the jail seemed to happen on a regular schedule. But honestly – two months? He could manage two months.

He kept clear of the more violent-seeming prisoners as well as the unpredictable ones. There was a guy lurking for the first couple of days – big and muscly, staring at Leonard in a way that might have made him approach him discreetly if they'd met at a bar, but in jail? Absolutely not the place to indulge this particular character flaw of his. Besides, the man disappeared after the first couple of days and Leonard made a point of not asking about him.

In the end, he ended up spending quite a lot of time with a somewhat skittish little man, who was coincidentally also serving time for a jewel heist. There was something obsessed about him – he always seemed to be working on his plans for a new heist, a perfect heist.

”And the best part is, nobody will mind, because nobody else knows that the Germans left that treasure behind,” he confided in Leonard after they'd been acquainted for a few weeks and he'd repeatedly stated his intentions to leave Denmark as soon as he got out.

Though Egon still kept mum about exactly where the abandoned German treasure were to be found.

When Leonard confided his own failed heist – his most ambitious to date and certainly far more gentleman thief-ly than picking pockets and stealing the occasional car – Egon snorted.

”Tell me you at least had a buyer lined up.”

Leonard hadn't.

”First rule of the big heist, Leo. If it's something famous – crown jewels or famous paintings or anything like that – you'll never find a fence to take it off your hands. That sort of heist pays in one of three ways: you ransom the goods back to the people you stole from, you steal on commision for some rich asshole that wants the thing, or you steal something like jewelry that can be broken down and sold as parts.”

Mostly Egon was good company, if given to ranting about all the troubles of the world once he'd grown comfortable around you – but he was often quite jittery around the guards.

”The warden doesn't like him,” one of the other inmates told Leonard. ”He's a repeat customer, which offends his professional pride, see? So – I think last time he came, they stuck him in the quiet room for a couple of days. They're not supposed to – not just like that – but they did. Drove him a little nuts, yeah? Tiny screw lose, just like the entire jail.”

Leonard imagined being locked in the quiet room – the local punishment cell, a perfectly sound proof room, where they strapped you down and left you – and shuddered.

They let Egon out two weeks before Leonard's sentence was up.

”Plan!” was his final piece of advice. ”Make the plan and then execute the plan. You need to account for every scenario, every tiny, seemingly inconsequential detail – that's the way to pull a heist.”

”He'll be back in a month. Two at most,” the gossipy inmate commented, and a little later, both he and Leonard were locked up in their cells, nursing black eyes and minor grudges.

The two weeks went by fast, even if the first was spent locked in his cell followed by a stern talking to about being a nice inmate for the rest of his stay, which had Leonard rolling his eyes once he was out of sight.

On the day of his scheduled release, the guards found his cell empty. Once the internal investigation was done – revealing a guard who'd gotten careless about his keys and a grocery delivery truck that left with a bit of extra cargo – it was decided by the powers that be to hush the whole thing up.

After all, a prison break was a dreadful embarrassment.


	5. Chapter 5

”Just admit it, Lenny. You're bored!”

”Sayeth the man who decided to do a stickup at my vernissage.”

Mick grinned broadly, picked up a poor, untouched glass of Chardonnay and downed it.

”'Course I did. Far too tempting, all those fancy folk with their thick wallets and shiny jewelry. How could an honest crook resist?”

”You didn't even wear a mask!”

”I did too,” Mick argued and picked up some more of the tiny, left-over sandwiches.

He could almost see Len's hair turn even more gray.

”Mick! You wore a barely-an-inch-wide strip of fabric with holes for your eyes. If I hadn't been able to convince the police that I'd hired you to do a happening to add a bit of entertainment to the evening you'd be cooling your heels in a cell right now!”

”But you did manage,” Mick pointed out, though privately, he suspected that Officer Singh had been less than fully convinced. He'd probably come across Mick before – in fact, Mick could have sworn there was something familiar about him, but – well. If Len said Mick was working for him and all the fancy guests had clapped and gossipped after Len had glared Mick into piling his loot on an empty table – not like he could have made it stick.

”And you had fun!” he added.

”I absolutely did not!”

”Sure you did. Thinking on your feet, getting me out of a jam. You loved it!”

”No!” Len didn't raise his voice, didn't slam the tray of half-empty glasses he'd been collecting down on a table to emphasize his point. ”I did not enjoy watching you pull a frankly amateurish heist with no exit strategy in sight. Damnit, Mick, you're smarter than that! What possessed you?!”

Mick sank down on one of the flimsy chairs in Lenny's gallery and sighed.

”You're bored.”

”Mick....”

”No, let me finish. You – this ain't you. All this – the gallery, this art....” and he waved at the spider-esque figurines littering the place.

”Not one word against Ainsley. She's a talented young woman, though admittedly, I hope she'll get past her arachnophobia soon.”

”Not the point. It's – Lenny. I've been watching you. For months now. Dealing with caterers, with stuck-up artists – not Ainsley, I like Ainsley – and snobby buyers. Lenny – why are you wasting yourself on this? You were the Winter Thief...”

”Mick, we've talked about this. I'm retired.”

”Yeah, you said. 'Cause of Lisa. But Lenny – you could run this joint blindfolded and with both hands tied to the backs of your knees. You know all the art, all the smoozing. You could do it in your sleep.”

”Your point?”

”You think you're fine now, 'cause you just had a vermicide,” - ”Vernissage” - ”whatever. 'Cause you just stayed up late to make sure all the spiders were in a row and had to get a new caterer 'cause the other guy turned out to be in it to sell heroin to your guests, and it all got your pulse up. But that's just today. Tomorrow you'll have nothing but sitting around and leafing through catalogues and waiting for somebody to wander in and pretend they know art half as well as you or want to sell you something, and Lenny. You get cabin fever. Don't you think I haven't noticed.”

”I do not get...”

”Sayeth that to the guy who didn't get jumped three times in a single day two weeks ago.” Mick paused for a moment to grin at the memory. It was a very nice memory. ”And don't get me wrong, that was great, but – you need more to do than just me.”

”You make it sound like you're proposing I collect a harem.”

”Nah, I ain't about to share. But Lenny – you ain't doing Lisa no favours by going stir-crazy from lack of using that big brain of yours.”

”And your solution is crime?”

”Well,” Mick leaned back and chewed on something that might have once been a piece of pineapple before somebody applied a knife to it, ”I am a crook. Like you.”

Len sighed and covered his face in his hands for a moment, then pulled them back through his hair. Yep, definitely some extra grays.

”Listen – just once. One heist. If it sucks, you stop, I never mention it again. Might start badgering you to take up table tennis or something, no promises.”

”One heist.”

”Just one. All yours.”

”And then you'll shut up.”

”Scout's honour.”

”I thought they kicked you out over that thing with the popcorn?”

”No distracting me now. One heist. That's all I'm asking.”

”Well – we'd need masks. Proper masks.”

”Sure,” Mick said and tried to hide his shit-eating grin.

This was going to be good.


	6. Chapter 6

In the end, getting into the mansion was fairly easy. Leonard had carefully scouted ahead, spent several days memorizing the pattern of the guards, and he'd made of point of waiting until Don Maniero was reputed to be spending the weekend with his latest lady-on-the-side at the Riviera.

Once darkness had fallen, it was simply a matter of waiting for the right moment, scaling a laurel tree that'd been allowed to grow foolishly close to the walls, and then simply making his way in through a balconet.

Simple.

Hardly a challenge for a thief the likes of which he was establishing his reputation as.

But then, mobster bosses were rarely known for needing security against common burglars. Who'd ever dare burgle them?

Leonard absolutely did not pause briefly to preen mentally. That would be unprofessional.

He'd acquired the plan of the mansion by way of a quick burglary at the firm that had built it, and he was fairly certain were he was going. Turn right by the bathroom with too much marble to be tasteful, down the stairs, along the hallway, up the other staircase, turn left – and there it was.

Painted in 1888, _Outskirts of Paris with Goat Herder_ had, a couple of years after the death of Van Gogh, found itself hanging on the walls of a moderately well-off Jewish family in Delft. While the exact wall changed a few times over the next few decades, the family had kept the painting – until World War II came along and knocked on their door.

From what Len had been able to dig up, the family had offered the valuable painting as payment to the human smugglers they hired to get them away from the Nazis. As it turned out, their taste in art was infinitely better than their ability to judge the trust-worthiness of human smugglers. He'd tried in vain to locate a surviving heir.

The painting had surfaced in Italy a few years after the war, changing hands a few times on the black market before ending up here, at the home of one of the more unsavoury crime bosses in northern Italy.

Len intended to change that.

He hadn't quite decided which museum he was going to leave the painting at. That brand new Van Gogh Museum he'd been reading about seemed the obvious place to go, really, but he'd decide that later. Right now he had to get through the acquisition part of the process.

He'd just finished carefully slicing the painting free of the frame and was rolling it up when he heard it.

It was a tiny noise.

Leonard froze, then carefully turned to take in the entire room, searching for the source of the sound, ready to bolt.

There it was again.

At the side of the room, there was something covered in a large sheet. When he'd entered, Leonard had assumed it was a piece of furniture or possibly a sculpture. Now he went and yanked it off.

It was a golden cage. Quite literally gilded.

Inside the cage, in a small basket, lay a small, fluffy animal, blinking miserably up at Leonard with the bluest eyes he'd seen in a long time. Next to the basket was a bowl half-filled with water and a plate of minced meat.

The cub made its sad, calling noise again.

”Hello there,” Leonard said quietly, sinking down in front of the cage. ”Where's your mother, little one?”

No reply, of course, other than that sad little noise.

Leonard frowned. He was hardly an expert on animals, but the – snow leopard? - looked downright thin and miserable. He wondered how old it was. It didn't look very old. It looked like it ought to be with its mother, curled up and cared for and drinking milk. Not all alone in a cage in a mansion in a crime boss' house.

***

Leonard ditched the tube with the painting right after he'd made it through the door of his rented cabin. Then he sank down on the couch and unbuttoned the top of his coat.

Blue eyes blinked up at him and there was a questioning noise.

”Now what am I going to do about you?” he answered the snow leopard cub with a question of his own.

What he ended up doing was going out and stealing a nanny goat from a nearby farm. Compared to stealing jewelry from movie stars visiting the Venice Biennale it was actually challenging, because the farm had a fairly consentious dog patrolling, but he made his escape with the somewhat dumb-founded animal.

Admittedly, he didn't know if goat milk was the best thing for a snow leopard cub, but surely it'd be better than the sad offerings at the mansion.

The next day Leonard made a decision and headed for a nearby zoo. It was a moderately sized affair, but having called ahead he'd determined that it did in fact have a veterinarian employed.

Lurking outside the zoo's staff entrance until a short, bespectacled man left to go home for lunch, then following him and kidnapping him at knife point might not have been Leonard's finest hour, but needs must.

Signor Gallo turned out to be a fount of useful information. For one thing, while it wouldn't be enough on its own, the goat milk was a useful first step, and he provided a list of what else the cub needed. For another, Signor Gallo had heard through his professional network of a zoo that had recently lost its snow leopard female. She'd been found dead of poison in her enclosure, her new cub vanished overnight.

”I will take care of the cub,” Signor Gallo offered, holding out his hands. ”She will do well at the zoo. Far better than at some criminal's house.”

***

He dropped Signor Gallo off about three miles outside of town, with a nice new coat, a thick bundle of cash and a flashlight. Then he drove north towards the Swiss border.

From the nice, warm basket in the back came a happy little noise, and Leonard took his eyes off the road for a moment to glance back. His snow leopard cub had somehow managed to grab hold of its own tail and was apparently happily munching on the fluffy tip.

”Don't worry, Snowdrop,” he said, reaching back to scritch her under the chin. ”We'll get another goat or two once we're in Locarno.”


	7. Chapter 7

”Just remember, there is no returning to sender, and sometimes a little less conversation a little more action can solve all your problems.”

Mick leered a little at Lenny. He was looking forward to the next part.

Len had that long-suffering look he sometimes put on, hiding behind a bland, angry face that tended to scare people who didn't know him. Not Mick, though. After all these years, he knew Lenny – his tells and moods and quirks.

If Lenny had really been serious with all his ”wouldn't you rather like a nice wedding with a rabbi and perhaps some classical music,” Mick wouldn't have put his foot down and insisted ”No! If I'm getting married, I want a Vegas wedding.”

'Elvis' hesitated for a moment, then spread his arms, letting the tassles dangle.

”By the power invested in me, the King, I now pronounce you husband and husband. You may kiss the groom.”

Well, he didn't have to tell Mick twice.

Lisa wolf-whistled enthusiastically and Mick momentarily worried that she'd be too distracted to keep pointing the gun at their officiant. They might have gotten the fun bits, but they still needed him to do the boring paperwork parts before they could really claim to have stolen themselves a marriage.

”Your sister is a brat,” he told Len a little while later as they slammed the car doors, leaving the wedding chapel behind them with a trussed up and gagged 'Elvis' safely stashed in the bathroom. The cleaner ought to find him in a few hours.

”Hey!” said brat protested. ”I got you the best wedding present and this is how you thank me?”

”You got us Viagra,” Len deadpanned.

”And a two-week all expenses paid vacation to Iceland,” Mick felt the need to defend the brat. ”Which is apparently one out of three European countries you've never visited and the other two didn't exist before you came back to the US.”

”I'm just trying to make sure you give Mick the best wedding night and you know the doctors say men your age sometimes need a little help.”

***

They'd rented an entire motel two counties over for the actual wedding party. Mick had insisted on the trashiest barbecue feast for dinner – sizzling ribs, giant sized steaks, burgers and all. Len had insisted on some fancy made-on-the-spot liquid nitrogen ice cream sprinkled with stuff like crushed salted caramel and dried raspberries and gold leaf dust for dessert.

Most of the guests had already arrived when the newlyweds and their brat baby sister pulled in. It was a somewhat eclectic mix. Some old friends of Lenny's from his European days, some friends of Mick's – including Waylon, his buddy from the year he'd spent in the circus as a runaway teen trying to become a sword swallower, who picked him up and gave him a bear hug.

Even Detective Singh and his partner were there, looking slightly out of place. Mick was a little surprised that they'd actually accepted the invitation.

”I didn't realize gay marriage had already been legalized in Nevada,” Rob commented as they shook hands.

”It hasn't.” Singh rubbed at his forehead. ”Couldn't you just have eloped to the Netherlands or Canada?”

”Certainly not,” Len answered. ”That'd be in violation of our professional ethics.”

After making the rounds and then filling first their plates and then their bellies, they meandered over to the gift table. The silver punch bowl Mick had gotten for Len held pride of place (upon seeing it, Detective Singh had gone ”Is that... No. Don't tell me. I don't want to know.) next to the ancient fireworks rocket stolen straight out of the Forbidden City, or so Len had told him when he'd presented it, and why would he lie? Around them were a scattering of presents – a shiny new toaster, bottles of wine, the envelope with the plane tickets and the ridiculously big box of pills from Lisa, a big painting in a gorgeously carved frame.

Len froze, then picked up a tiny Grecian style vase. He turned it carefully in his hands, and Mick frowned. Sure, it was pretty – a red man carrying a torch against a black background on one side, a winged guy leaping across the other, and between them an amazon – but Mick couldn't quite figure what about it had made Lenny stop like that.

”It's been a while, Mr. Snart. Or is it Mr. Rory now?” a warm voice asked from behind their backs.

”Just Snart. We're both keeping our names. Less chances of stealing each other's towels in the morning, see?” and he gestured vaguely towards the two carefully monogrammed towels one of his acquaintances from his gallery days had gifted them.

Then he turned and Mick did as well.

The woman was tall and she looked as warm as her voice. She also looked drop dead gorgeous. Statuesque with long dark hair and just – beautiful. Mick might be gay and also a happily newly married man, but it was entirely possible that if this woman beckoned, he might go straight for a night.

Looking at the way Lenny was looking at her, he had it even worse.

”Hello, Diana. It's good of you to come.”

That brought Mick up short. Len had mentioned a Diana from time to time, a conservator who worked at the British Museum or the Louvre or some place like that. Claimed to have met her back in – this chick would have been a kid back then.

”I was happy to. And you must be Mick?” and he found himself drawn into a hug. She smelled of smoke and wild flowers.

”Do you like the first half of my wedding present?”

”Half? It's got a twin?” Len enquired, suddenly seeming to remember the vase in his hands and carefully putting it back down.

”Oh no. It's more in the nature of a promise if you can solve the riddle. I'm certain you'll manage. Now, Mick,” and she took his arm, ”why don't we go get some of that delicious ice cream and you can tell me all about how the two of you met and courted while Leonard glares at the vase?”

It was about an hour later, while Diana and Waylon were arm wrestling and half the guests were making bets that Len rejoined them, his eyes wide in a pretty familiar way. Ah. Well. Apparently everybody wanted Len and Mick to have a really awesome wedding night.

Cool.


	8. Chapter 8

It was a truth universally acknowledged among the criminals of Paris: Nobody steals from the Louvre.

Oh, there was the occasional pickpocketing, the occasional robbery of the gift shop, but the art itself? The paintings and statues and all the other valuable treasures. They were sacrosanct. Rumours were whispered from fence to cat burglar to gangster, telling stories of horrid ends and strange happenings.

Admittedly, while some criminals were of the superstitious sort, in Leonard's experience the cold and calculating pragmatists far out-weighed them. And yet, even they would repeat those words.

Nobody steals from the Louvre.

Except Leonard had.

It hadn't been anything huge. Just a small, bronze Pegasus, a little awkward because it looked like it was supposed to have been the handles of something and not a small statue as such. And it hadn't even been a particularly difficult heist. He'd hidden as the closing hour drew near, had kept a careful look-out for guards changing their patterns, and then strolled out with the bronze horse about an hour and a half after the museum opening the next day.

Really, apart from the superstition, the Louvre would be ripe for the taking.

Still, Leonard probably wouldn't have stolen from it – he usually preferred to steal from private collectors, especially of the less than honest sort – but that had been Ripley's price for allowing him to return to Paris. And considering what he now knew about Tom Ripley, well – it had seemed the safest choice. It's not like the man had even wanted the horse, merely a photograph as proof that Leonard had stolen something from the Louvre.

***

Something felt off even as he made his way into the small house in the 16th arrondissement.

It was a nice house in what was more or less a suburb, no garden to speak of, but it was right next to the edge of the Bois de Boulogne. Admittedly, it was a bit overflowing with ladies of the night most evenings, but still, it made for a decent spot to exercise for two.

Leonard took the steps two at a time, worrying what he’d find in the upstairs living room. He had time to imagine his carefully selected collection of stolen goods gone, his pet slain – and then he froze as he reached the top.

There was a woman sitting in his couch. She was beautiful, like Galatea come to life, and it almost made her sensible business clothes seem drab.

Snowdrop was sitting in front of her, glaring. Good cat.

For a moment, Leonard worried that the woman might have a gun, but if she did, she made no move towards it. Instead she raised her head, smiled in greeting and started to rise, until a warning growl made her change her mind.

“Mr. Snart, I take it. We’ve been waiting for you.”

“So I can see,” he commented, forcing himself to sound casual and to turn so it wasn’t immediately obvious that his left hand was seeking the Sicilian blade he had taken to carrying most days. “I hope you haven’t waited long.”

“Oh no. Miss Snowdrop has been regaling me with tales of your adventures while we waited.”

Leonard blinked. Right. A beautiful madwoman had burgled his place. Well, stranger things had happened.

“That’s nice,” he drawled, wandering over to the drinks cabinet and pouring whiskey into two glasses.

“Indeed,” she nodded and accepted the glass he offered her. “She’s particular fond of retelling your adventures in Romania. Apparently, winter in the Carpathians was ever so much fun, at least from her perspective. I assume that’s where you acquired that lovely Seal of the House Bathory?”

“Possibly,” Leonard hummed. “Forgive me, miss, but I fear you have me at a disadvantage. You are?”

“Diana Prince,” and this time she stood, ignoring Snowdrop and offering her hand. Some sort of wide metal armbands peaked out under her sleeves. “I work as a conservator at the Louvre. It’s been brought to my attention that you might have come into possession of something of ours, so I took it upon myself to fetch it back.”

Leonard raised an eyebrow.

“All alone, Miss Prince? Don’t you think that might possibly be dangerous?”

“Why, Leonard – may I call you Leonard? – I have gone far worse places than the suburbs by myself.”

“Oh?”

“Certainly. For instance, after the last war, I spent some time travelling in Germany and on into Russia.”

Leonard frowned. She would have had to have been very young at the time, and yet she seemed younger than him.

“ Still, Diana – to bait the leopard in its lair, so to speak, does that not seem unwise of you?”

“Not this particular leopard, no.” She smiled and took a step towards him, and before he could call her off, Snowdrop leapt.

The woman grabbed the great cat in her arms and held her firmly. Snowdrop thrashed a bit, her claws slashing the woman’s clothes and raking across her face, and yet she merely stood, calmly, until the animal had tired itself out. Then she let her go.

Snowdrop hurriedly moved behind Leonard, directing an offended hiss at the woman.

“Oh hush, Snowdrop. It’s only your pride that’s been hurt, and we all must suffer through that from time to time.”

Leonard stared. The struggle had left her a little mussed, her clothes were badly damaged and covered in shed fur besides, but – he had seen Snowdrop’s claws rake across the woman’s face. There should be wounds, cuts, perhaps even an eye lost, and yet.

And yet.

“Nobody steals from the Louvre,” he stated slowly, taking a step back.

“I have been working very hard at that particular saying,” Diana smiled.

“Except I did.”

“Which brought me here, to you and your charming friend.”

Leonard sighed, then turned and walked to where the horse was standing on a bookshelf. He’d been considering keeping it.

“Let me fetch something to wrap it in. It’d be a shame if it got banged up on the way back.”

Once he’d fetched a sheet and torn it into rags, carefully wrapping the figurine, he handed it to her.

“So – what happens now?”

“Now? Why, I imagine it’s past time for you to get Snowdrop her supper. I’ll see myself out, shall I?”

“That’s not – I meant…”

“I know what you meant, Leonard. But not tonight. Snowdrop’s been an excellent host and an excellent friend tonight, and I’d hate to deprive her of her well-earned meal. Just – don’t do it again?”

For a moment he stood and looked at the closed door. Then he grinned and looked down at Snowdrop.

“Don’t bet on it.”


	9. Chapter 9

Mick and Len were having lunch at a nice café, the way Lenny always liked to do after a scouting session these days. He liked to sit down and give his joints a rest, letting the fancy swordstick with the carved cat’s head he’d taken to walking with rest against the chair.

They’d spent the morning taking an utterly dull tour of the Central City Museum, while Len had studied the lay of the new exhibit with the Kahndaq treasures – a fair number of antiques in the Egyptian style as well as the famous Kahndaq Dynasty diamond. Meanwhile, it’d been Mick’s job to pay attention to the cameras, guards, anything that might have gotten changed up since their last visit.

“Why the diamond?” Mick asked, poking suspiciously at the broccoli on his plate. “You’ll never get it sold, it’s too famous, and I don’t want it for our anniversary.”

“Only three reasons to pull a big heist.”

“Yeah, yeah, but you never do the ransom stunt, it’d be a pity to cut a gem like that down to smaller bits – so who’s paying?”

“We’ll get well compensated. An old acquaintance of mine contacted me on his behalf and has guaranteed that Mr. Adam will pay promptly upon delivery of...”

An armored truck drove past.

That wasn’t what interrupted Len. That’d be the explosion that pretty much toppled said truck, and the armed men in ski masks shooting into the air and shouting.

“Amateurs,” Mick grumbled as he turned over their table, sacrificing their barely touched lunches to get something between them and the mess outside. The police would show up within a couple of minutes – who the hell robbed anything two blocks from a station? – and then it’d get even messier.

Except then something – someone? – moved like a hurricane down the street, leaving a trail of red lightning in its wake. It weaved between the would-be robbers, and where it had passed, they were left unarmed and lying on the ground, confused and vulnerable.

Whatever it was it circled the fallen truck twice, before slowing down by the front end long enough that the sparky blur resolved itself into the shape of a man encased in some sort of red leather uniform. Then it – he, if Mick was correct – picked up speed again, a darker stain in the red as it sped off down the street.

“There’s a hospital in that direction,” Len said from where he’d gotten to his feet behind Mick.

Mick turned to look at Lenny, see if he was alright. He’d been a bit hurried about pushing him down to safety and Len weren’t as robust as he had been these days.

There was a gleam in Len’s eyes.

“Oh no. Lenny, whatever it is, it’s a bad idea.”

“Oh yes,” Len agreed with obvious relish, and Mick knew they were doomed.

***

“Damnit, Lenny, I told you to wait for me,” Mick grumbled, firing up the Heat Gun and aiming it at the raggedy trio and their doohickey. They yelped and drew backwards as he laid down a tiny warning blaze.

Len turned back around to where he’d left the Flash frozen to the ground.

He looked good this way – assured and somewhat scary in that ridiculous parka Lisa had given him two years ago for his birthday, Cold Gun in his right hand as he leaned slightly on the swordstick in his left.

“Well, now they have me at a disadvantage,” and he walked forward, unsheathing the sword and provoking a yelp from the young man. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

Len was careful not to touch skin as he sliced the mask off the fallen superhero, while Mick had to fire another warning shot to stop the three Stooges from forgetting themselves and rushing to their buddy’s aid.

Disappointingly, you still couldn’t see his face properly once the mask came off. It was all blurry.

“Stop that,” Len ordered, poking the Flash in the chest with his sword, “or I’ll have my partner give a proper demonstration of the weapon in his hands.”

The blur didn’t stop.

“Roast do-gooder it is,” Mick grinned. “Any preferences, Boss?”

“Stop,” and the blur resolved itself into a wide-eyed and honestly far too young looking face.

Mick grinned and fished his phone out of a pocket. He snapped a few pictures and made sure they were good – no sneaky blurring anywhere – then took a few at the gawking back-ups as well, before sending them off.

“Think that’ll do it?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” and Len re-sheathed the sword before sinking down, letting the muzzle of the Cold Gun rest against the pretty boy’s throat. “Assuming our new friend here has any internet presence at all, and who doesn’t in this day and age, our contact should have an ID in…”

Mick’s phone crackled like fireworks.

“Lenny? I’d like you to meet Barry Allen, CSI with the CCPD.”

The kid looked horrified. Well, that was the point of this little game.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Allen. Now – can you guess how the rest of this conversation is going to go?”

“I can’t just let you…”

“Let us?” Mick barked. “It ain’t us lying on the ground.”

The kid flushed, his face stuck in a funny grimace between anger and embarrassment.

“Hush, Mick. I’m certain our young friend will do his utmost to put us behind bars in the future. He will simply have to consider the potential cost of his actions. For instance, the good Captain Singh might be officially informed that one of his men are running around in bondage gear playing vigilante. But not tonight.” He put the swordstick down for a moment, behind him so as to be out of reach of the Flash, then fished a tiny box out of his pocket. “Tonight our young hero simply needs to learn to accept a defeat graciously.”

The Flash scowled, then let his head fall backwards, banging it slightly against the hard ground.

“Fine. You win.”

“Excellent.”

Mick just looked at the trio, his eyebrows raised, until they put down their – whatever that was? A pimped-out garden hose?

Len smirked and opened the box, then put the snowdrop inside right on top of the silly lightning symbol on the kid’s chest.

“Need a hand, Boss?” Mick asked when he felt Lenny was taking a bit too long climbing back to his feet, but he got waved off. A moment later Len was standing again, grimacing at the pain in his knees.

Mick decided to ignore Lenny’s waving and gallantly offered him his arm.

“Hey, Kid,” Len called back over his shoulder as they were leaving, “thanks for the new name. It has a certain ring to it. I might even consider changing my old nom de guerre.”

“Wait,” and they turned back to where the Flash had managed to push himself almost into a sitting position, though his lower body was still encased in ice. He was looking at them with dawning horror.

“I’m sorry, it’s just – don’t get angry, but: How old are you?”

Mick laughed.

“Who, Lenny? How does that Bible verse go again? “Three score and ten”?”

As they left the scene of the crime, they heard the Flash exclaiming behind them: “I got my ass kicked by a senior citizen? What if I’d hurt him?”


	10. Chapter 10

He noticed the envelope on the mantlepiece when he entered the living room, right where Senhora Pimenta usually left any mail that had arrived for him in his absence.

Senhora Pimenta was an excellent housekeeper. She cleaned, she cooked when he was not away on a business trip, she made sure to feed and brush and take Snowdrop for walks through the village in his absence, and she enjoyed her tiny annex with all the amenities of modern life.

He put the ridiculously heavy gold scepter down on the mantlepiece, taking a moment to turn it to have the dragon face outwards. Then he picked up the envelope and frowned.

The postmark read Central City.

For a moment the old anger rose, and he was almost about to crumble the letter and toss it into the fireplace, almost about to get a fire going just for the pleasure of watching it catch and crumble and become nothing but ashes and bad memories...

Then Snowdrop rumbled from the other end of the room.

“Hello, old girl,” Leonard said as he knelt down to give her a proper greeting. Once, she'd have been the one bounding across the room to nearly knock him down with her affection, but these days she was getting more grey than white around her muzzle and when she walked, which she'd developed a firm preference for avoiding, it was stifly.

She rumbled happily and pushed her forehead against his hand, though.

“Well, Snowdrop – shall we see who is writing us?” he enquired, arranging himself cross-legged on the floor next to her nice, soft basket.

A little rubbing underneath one of her paws and she helpfully lent a claw with opening the envelope, then settled down, closed her eyes and let Leonard run his fingers through her thick fur. Really, it was too thick – they should head back to the Alps soon. She had loved the Alps.

_Dear Mr. Snart,_ the letter started.

_I apologize for writing to you like this. I have your address from an expensive, but very efficient private detective._

_But I am getting ahead of myself. Allow me to introduce myself: my name is Elizabeth Daniels, and we are, I believe, distantly related through marriage, as my great niece Heather Daniels was the second wife of your father, Mr. Lewis Snart._

_I am not certain how they met and I can no longer ask, but I fear the marriage was not an entirely happy one. Despite whatever troubles they might have had, Heather – who was considerably younger than your father – gave birth to a daughter, Lisa Snart. This was nearly four years ago._

_I write that my great niece was your father's wife because she died about 6 months ago._

_Heather grew distant after marrying your father and more distant still after Lisa's birth. Still, she would very occasionally visit, and I'm sorry to say that I saw bruises on her more than once. I tried to convince her to leave Lewis, but she always refused. I do not have any actual evidence that he is to blame for her death, but..._

_But I digress. It is not for the sake of Heather that I write, but for the sake of Lisa._

_While Heather lived, Lisa was a charming, precocious and ever curious child. The few times I've been allowed to see her since my great niece's death, she has seemed to me withdrawn and skittish. Some change in personality might naturally be explained by grief for her mother, yet – I tell myself that I am being foolish, but I cannot shake my concerns._

_I should go to the authorities, but I am only an old woman with suspicions and no proof, while the older Mr. Snart, though retired, to the best of my knowledge still has many contacts among the Central City Police Department. I fear any attempt I'd make would at best be ignored._

_During one of her visits, my great niece confided in me the existence of an older son of Lewis Snart. Apparently your father preferred not to talk about you, but after Heather fell pregnant he let something slip. I determined to see if I could track that older son – you – down in the probably forlorn hope that you might be willing to try to help my youngest niece, your sister._

_Lisa Snart._

_The detective I hired determined that you'd run away from home at age 16, only to resurface in various parts of Europe over the following years. Eventually, he provided me with an address in Portugal._

_Dear Mr. Snart. Leonard._

_I realize that you have never met Lisa, and that you might well feel no responsibility to help a strange child. It is clear to me that you've washed your hands of Central City and from what I know of your father, I do not blame you, but still. I beg you._

_I have no idea if you are even in any sort of position to lend any assistance._

_Forgive an old woman pinning her hopes on a stranger._

_Yours  
Elizabeth Daniels_

He'd stopped reading the letter aloud after the first couple of sentences. Now, the hand holding the letter sank and he sat silently, staring into the empty room for a little while.

Then he drew a breath.

“Well, old girl. Looks like...”

He paused.

Snowdrop lay still under his hand, her eyes shut, her tail not so much as twitching from a dream. He stopped running his fingers through her fur and rested it against her chest, then brought it up in front of her nostrils.

Nothing.

“Oh Snowdrop.”

He let the letter fall to the floor and buried his face in the snow leopard's fur.

***

The waiter brought out the telephone along with Leonard's order of coffee and pastéis de nata.

He nodded his thanks to the waiter, then went back to watching the life passing by the little cafe in the village square. He felt strangely reluctant to pick up the phone – to take that first decisive step away from the life he had made for himself.

He ate the tiny tarts slowly, relishing the taste, and sipped his coffee equally slowly.

Finally, his plate empty except for the used napkin and the cup almost empty, he took a deep breath, picked up the handset and dialed the number from memory.

It took several rings before somebody answered.

“Hello, Tom. I have a favour to ask.”

“You see, I've decided to move back to the States. I find myself in need of some assistance in the matter of getting my collection through customs – and I suspect I will have to let go of a few of my pieces entirely.”

“I thought you might.”

“Oh, there's no need for that. I have an errand in Paris next week – I have purchased a plot in Le Cimetière des Chiens and...”

“Thank you. That's very kind of you. She had a good life, yes.”

“Ah, yes. I will be arranging the sale of my house here, though I think for now I'll be keeping the Venetian apartment. I might find myself in need of a vacation spot, if America proves too – unwelcoming.”

“Yes. Les Deux Magots? Of course I'm familiar with it. Yes, saturday next week will suit me just fine. Thank you.”

“Oh yes, there's one more thing. I understand that you've still got connections to certain elements back in the States. I fear that I am going to require a gun when I get there. Something practical. Do you think...”

“Excellent. I'll see you next week, then. Goodbye, Tom.”

He hung up.

For a few more minutes he sat and watched life happen, as if trying to paint a picture of the village – or perhaps of Europe – somewhere behind his eyes. Then he picked up his cup and drained it, before leaving a small pile of bills – plenty to cover both the long distance call and a generous tip – beneath the plate.

He did not look back as he left.


End file.
